


Guy's Place: 1949

by lasergirl



Category: Green Lantern Corps - Fandom
Genre: M/M, WWII AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2010-05-08
Updated: 2010-09-25
Packaged: 2017-10-09 09:04:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/85500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lasergirl/pseuds/lasergirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A WWII AU with Guy and Kyle from the Green Lantern Corps, inspired by the GLC arc where they open a bar on Oa. I just really wanted a cranky Guy to run a bar, so I wrote it!  Will probably be a series when there are more parts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The man behind the bar has a scowl on his face, and, when he bends down to retrieve a root beer from the cooler, a ragged white scar that bisects the red hair across the back of his head and down into the collar of his shirt.

"Not really much call for it," he says, hooking the cap off on the notched edge of the bar. He slides it across to Kyle. "Brew it myself."

Kyle takes a swig; it's vanilla and sassafras and reminds him of something he can't quite remember. "Thanks." He pushes a nickel – his last – across the bar in payment.

The bartender grunts and goes back to polishing glasses with a towel. It's early, and the bar is empty. Kyle swivels around on his stool and surveys the few tables and booths, the seats in cracked vinyl glowing warmly where rogue fingers of sunshine are sneaking through the clouded windows.

He digs in the beat-up pack on the stool next to him and comes up with his pocket-sized sketchbook and the stub of a pencil. There's no way he can fit the character of this place into a three-by-five page, but he just lets his pencil wander. It picks out the fist-shaped dent in the plaster by the door, the remnants of old stained glass in the entryway, the moldy old pool table squatting in a flare of greenish light, and the way the bartender holds himself, spine gently curved, one hip leaning against the bar as he works.

"Artist, huh?" There's the rattle and clink of glassware as the bartender stows his last polished masterpiece and leans over the bar to view Kyle's handiwork.

"Uh," Kyle shrugs. "Yeah, I guess so."

"You guess?" There's the briefest flash of a white-toothed grin and a heavy-knuckled finger pushes the nickel back across the bar. "Drink's on the house. Do another one."

Kyle turns the page over to the last bare place in the book, the scraped and scarred naked cardboard of the back cover. There's a stain on one corner that could be rust (but probably is something worse) and sand stuck in the crevices. He runs it across his knee, brushes off the grit with his fingers. Licks his pencil.

He has the broad shoulders and heavy neck of a boxer, Kyle thinks as he draws; of a man who'd fought for a living (or maybe for his life). He'd expected the eyes to be as humorless as his mouth, but as his pencil traces the planes of the bartender's face, he discovers long-hidden laugh lines, written over by harder living. There are pleasant crinkles at the corners of his eyes, but they are nearly obscured by the crow's feet of suffering. And the eyes are blue, blue, blue… and looking right at him.

Kyle blushes, coughs, and folds the sketchbook against his chest. "I'm, uh, out of paper," he stammers. "It's no good."

"Hm," says the bartender. "Somehow I doubt that."

"Well, maybe when I can get another pad, I could-" but his excuse sounds weak even to his own ears. He sighs. "Okay, fine." He slaps the ragged cardboard onto the bar between them and holds his breath.

There's a sharp noise that makes Kyle wince away, but in a split-second he realizes it's a laugh; the bartender is holding the grubby book at arm's length and chuckling.

"You really caught something. Don't know what it is, but it's not bad. Not bad at all." He reaches across the bar to shake Kyle's hand. "Name's Guy. What's yours, kid?"

"Uh, Kyle. Kyle Rayner." Guy's hand is hard and callused, and warmer than Kyle's own. He doesn't really know what the protocol is for this situation, so he just shakes the proffered hand.

"You got a place to stay? You look like you're living out of that bag." Guy jerks a thumb at Kyle's battered duffel. "I hope you aren't thinkin' about the Y.M.C.A. dormitory. They got bedbugs."

"Well, I-" Kyle says, "I was going to. That's what the bus driver said. It's a couple blocks from here, isn't it?

"Tell you what, you wash a few dishes here tonight and you can crash upstairs. I've got a couple extra rooms." Guy was still gazing at the sketch as if considering something Kyle couldn't see. "And I could use the help. Friday, everyone wants a drink and I just have the one girl working. She's a real honey, but neither of us can be in two places at once."

Kyle pauses. He'd only stopped because the sidewalk outside had been boiling hot and hurt his feet. He'd been walking for the better part of the day from the Intercity Bus Station, and, true, he had intended to sleep at the Y.M.C.A. that night. But Guy intrigued him, his rough hospitality and unexpected generosity. What were the odds that anyone else in New York City would give him the same treatment?

"You know what? I'd love to." Kyle flashes a smile. "No more walking. My feet hurt like hell anyway."

"Amen to that. You drink, kid?" Guy sloshes himself a rocks glass of something amber and smoky-smelling from a corked bottle under the bar. "I'm buyin'."

"Okay for now," Kyle raises the bottle of root beer in a miniature 'cheers' and the two of them clink glass. Guy downs his shot in one gulp, and gives a grateful grunt.

"Yeah, that's the ticket." He wipes his mouth on the back of his hand. "Here, I'll show you around while it's still quiet. You can toss your pack upstairs."

As he moves from behind the bar to flip the sign on the door, Kyle sees he walks with a stiff limp. It's not surprising; so many men returned from the war with extra scars and bits and pieces missing. Guy must see the way he's watching because he pulls a face and shrugs.

"Yeah, don't be soft just 'cause I'm a gimp, alright? I used to be a Marine and I can still kick your ass. Now come on, I'll show you the rest of the place."

In the back, behind the small (and surprisingly spotless) kitchen and store room is an office awash in torn envelopes and crumpled paper. A banker's lamp illuminates the blotter on the heavy desk, and in the corner Kyle sees a tufted leather settee with a pillow leaking stuffing. Guy shows him around with a wave of one arm:

"My office. Don't even think about touching a thing, I got my own method for filing all this stuff."

From the looks of things, yellow bills mean 'in the trash can' and pink is apparently 'put in a pile and ignore.'

Kyle nods. "Yeah, no problem."

"Here, you go first. ' Guy points him up the steep and narrow staircase behind the office. "Used to be the servant's stairs but when the bar renovated the front set got trashed." He's not much slower than Kyle, but noisier, and when Kyle gets to the top he pauses and looks around.

It's not palatial (hey, it's New York) but there's enough space for a couple of beat-up armchairs and a bookshelf in the living room, a modest kitchenette with a gas stove and a bathroom with a claw-footed tub. Guy points down the hallway.

"Mine's the first door, but have your pick of the other two. They're all pretty much the same. You can clean up a bit first, and if you come down before five I'll give you a sandwich before you start shift. How's that sound?" Guy's leaning against the kitchen doorframe, watching Kyle intently.

"That's great." Kyle opens the door to the second bedroom. The neatly whitewashed space holds a single bed, a small table and chair and a desk lamp. The sun is stronger here than on the first floor, actually falling across the floor in fat beams. He can feel the warmth on his shins where it nibbles up his legs.

"Towels over the toilet," Guy tells him. Kyle comes back out into the hallway. "Anything else?"

"Yeah, how come you're being so nice to me?"

Guy shrugs enigmatically. "Ever heard of a good deed? Just passing on one someone gave me, once. I'll see you in a bit."

Kyle shakes his head and goes into the bedroom again. He can hear Guy making his way back downstairs, the stairway door swinging shut behind him, then silence.

Oh, what the hell. The bus from California had taken him nearly a week, during which Kyle had only been able to wash and shave in the bus stations' cold-water restrooms, and only sleep sitting up with his face pressed against the window (or a stranger). He wasn't going to pass up the opportunity for a decent shower and a meal, let alone a proper pillow and an actual bed with sheets. Kyle dropped his pack on the single bed and went in search of a towel.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kyle comes clean about some of his past, and Guy has an interesting proposal for him.

For the first time in years, Kyle wakes up without anyone shouting him from sleep. There is the usual rumble and honk of traffic outside his window, but he can actually hear birds singing.

No, wait. There's also water running in the bathroom sink; he can hear it gurgling down the drain. So Guy is… whistling?

Kyle drags himself vaguely upright and scrubs a hand across his eyes. He remembers getting back upstairs at two in the morning, fingers pruned from washing the last of the glasses and plates in the kitchen, and falling into bed. His shoes are sideways on the floor, looking vaguely like shipwrecked vessels. There's an ache in his back and legs, but the good kind that comes from walking 36 blocks uptown and working on his feet all night. Despite that, he feels refreshed, and more at ease than he has in weeks, maybe months.

He's reluctant to leave the comfort of the bed, but the water shuts off in the bathroom and soon he can smell good roasted coffee on the brew. His mouth is watering.

"Hey, morning, Kyle." Guy is just pouring himself a cup and he's got another on the countertop waiting. "What do you take?"

"Just milk if you have any." He waits as Guy adds a dollop from the glass quart, and then takes the cup he's offered. "Thank you."

"You did good last night," Guy says, between gulps of his own (black) coffee. "I probably ought to pay you. You didn't break a glass all night."

Kyle's actually a little proud of that, because the washing-up sink in the downstairs kitchen is a deep porcelain tub that he'd had to stand on a stool to reach the bottom of. In a previous life, an army of scullery maids had scrubbed their fingers raw in its depths, probably pleading the very same prayer Kyle whispered to himself the night before. But he doesn't want to admit it, so he sips his coffee and smiles back at Guy.

"Just luck, I guess." His shrug doesn't break the tension he can feel building in the small space between them, so he retreats to the strategic expanse of the hallway.

Guy drains his cup and refills it from the battered percolator, and keeps watching Kyle with an unreadable expression.

"We didn't really talk last night. Come on." Guy herds him out of the hallway into the dingy living room, and points at a beaten-up armchair. Kyle sits, and Guy sinks into his own, stretching one leg out in front of him with a sigh. "So. What are you going to do in New York, then? Can't stick around here too long. No options at this dump."

"I was planning on going to art school, maybe pick up a couple of jobs to help pay for it." Kyle fidgets with his coffee cup, intently focused on the chip on the far side of the rim. He fingers the toothy edge. "At least, when I started out. The trip took longer than I thought, and…" his voice sinks, "it kind of cost more, too…."

"They got no art schools where you came from?" Kyle expects sarcasm, but when he looks up, Guy doesn't even seem to notice. "Or is there something else?"

"Things weren't… great back home. I thought this was easier."

Guy snorts. "Yeah, of course. Thousands of miles easier. Where you from? San Francisco? San Diego?"

"Los Angeles."

"Hm." Guy drinks his coffee while Kyle just sits there, feeling like he's gotten stuck in another police interrogation like the ones he'd been snared into in his old neighborhood. Bored teenagers, dope and knives were never a good combination.

He hadn't wanted to run with the street gang, but in Los Angeles, you learned to affiliate yourself quickly, or risk violence. They were small-time hoods, just petty thefts and break-and-enters, but since Kyle had been the skinniest, it had always come down to him to wriggle through the cracked-open window or stick his arm through the crack in the doorframe to unlatch the lock.

His parents didn't seem to notice what he was up to; his mother was too busy taking in laundry to make ends meet, while his father just drank the rent money away. It was a vicious, snarling circle and he knew he had to get out. Kyle had squirreled away his shares of the spoils until he had enough money for a bus ticket, and the he'd gotten the hell out.

No one knows him here; he can be anyone he wants to be. so why is he so afraid? The past is behind him.

"Listen, Guy, I don't know what you think about me now, but… back home, I wasn't a very good person. I did a lot of bad things."

"Kill someone?" Guy's scowling again, his big fist curled around the coffee cup like it's a weapon.

"No! Oh, god, no. Just… robberies, and little old ladies' windows and stuff." The truth comes out of Kyle's mouth in a rush, and he's just as surprised as Guy to hear himself saying it so easily. "There was a gang. But I'm done with that. I swear."

"Hm," Guy says again, without taking his eyes off Kyle.

Kyle blushes a little and looks away, eyes travelling off towards the dusty bookshelf with a few pulp novels and a dictionary with a cracked spine. On the centre shelf he sees a couple of kiddie books (odd) and some rumpled-looking comic books (also odd.) There's also a small black leather case with a Government stamp on it. He gets the feeling he's in way over his head. He isn't welcome here, of course he isn't. No self-respecting man would let some punk kid just move into his place.

"Thanks for the coffee," Kyle says quietly. He stands up, brushes one sweaty palm against his leg to dry it. "I'm just going to collect my things and then I'll go." He offers his hand to Guy to shake.

Guy looks at him, then the hand. He reaches into his pocket for something, and then takes Kyle's hand. There's something warm, dry and papery against his palm. He pulls away, look down. He's holding three crumpled dollar bills.

"Uh."

"So it looks like I might need some help around here," Guy says with a straight face. "Last night was the first time in a long while I've gotten to bed before three. I got no plans for that bedroom. How about sticking around for a bit?"

Kyle's mouth falls open. "What?"

"And anyway, Donna likes you, which counts for something." There's a twinkle in Guy's blue, blue eyes. "Also, I like you. Which really counts for something, because I don't like anyone. Whaddya say?"

Kyle can barely mouth the word "yes" because he's smiling too hard.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kyle's layers are being eroded, but Guy's are being torn from him....

Guy's shut himself in his office for 8 hours straight on a Sunday. When Kyle knocks on the door to tell him he's going out, Guy doesn't even answer the door with a yell. Kyle tries the doorknob, and the door's open. He pokes his head in.

"Guy? You busy?"

The room is dim in the fading afternoon light, and Guy is sitting hunched over his desk with his head in his hands. The sea of papers surrounding him has parted slightly since the last time Kyle saw him, but it still seems to be a battle Guy is losing. At his elbow is a highball and what remains of a bottle of scotch, an inch left in the bottle and a drop in the glass.

"Yeah, but it doesn't matter," groans Guy, leaning stiffly back in his chair. He scrubs one hand across his face. "What?"

"You've been in here all day," Kyle pauses on the threshold, not sure if he should trespass. Guy said the office was off-limits when he showed Kyle around that first day, and maybe he hasn't changed his mind about that. Besides, if the pillow on the settee (and the blanket on the floor) is any indication, Guy spends more time sleeping in here than in his bedroom.

"It's Sunday. This is kind of where I spend it," Guy mutters. He makes a vague attempt to tidy some of the papers on the blotter in front of him, but the shuffling only seems to make things worse. He scowls and shoves the whole mess off to one side. The bottle of scotch catches his eyes and he tips the last inch into his glass. "There something I can do for you, Kyle?"

"Oh, well, I was just going to go for a walk before it got dark. Just for some air, you know?" Even though he'd been in the neighborhood for nearly a week, Kyle was still discovering little surprises around every corner. The park with the big maple that was great for sitting under and drawing was three blocks up and two over, and the place Guy sent him to get groceries was two blocks down. There was a bus stop a block over that could take him to the subway, and if he went up to the Y.M.C.A. he could pick up a game of basketball with some other kids his age. "If you need anything I can pick it up?"

"Ah, hell, nothing's open on a Sunday in this neighborhood." Guy checks the time on the clock on the wall. "Is it decent out? I might take some air myself." He looks at Kyle, perched in the doorway with his sketchbook under one arm, and rethinks himself. "That is, if you'd like company. You look like you've got a plan already."

"Well, there is a park I was going to go to. There's some old men who play chess and I wanted to draw them." Kyle fidgets. "Do you want to come? You look like you're in the middle of something."

"I'm in the middle of thinking it's a better idea to tear it all up and start again," sighs Guy, "Believe me, it's probably better I get out of here before I mess it up too badly."

"Well, what are you doing? Maybe I could help?" Kyle takes a couple of steps towards the desk, but Guy curls an arm protectively over the pile. He stops in his tracks. "Okay."

"No, it's just… you don't want to help with this, it's boring enough without two people bashing their heads over it. I just need a break from it, that's all." Guy pushes back in his chair and gets to his feet, making a low noise against the stiffness in his leg. A brief flicker of resignation passes over his face, but he shoves it away and finds a grin instead. "Let me grab my coat."

Kyle waits at the back door for Guy. He listens to him finish the scotch, toss the bottle in the trashcan and mutter something to himself. His uneven footsteps pause at the office door, and he sticks his head out.

"There a stick by the door, Kyle? Can't find it in here."

Kyle looks around, and sees the handle of a cane poking out behind a broken umbrella and an old raincoat. He pulls it out. "This?"

"Yeah." Guy sighs and reaches for it unwillingly. Their fingers brush together on the handle, and Kyle jerks his hand away. Guy regards him with a quizzical eyebrow. "Not gonna bite, you know."

Logically, Kyle knows this, but suddenly his heart is beating fast, and his throat's gone tight. He's remembering things he wants desperately to forget, things he thought he could leave behind him. It seems that no matter how far he runs, those things have a way of catching up with him.

"It's nothing," he says, retreating under Guy's intense gaze. He feels backed up against the wall, like he's not in control. Kyle takes a shaky, deep breath into the knotted fist of panic pressing at his ribcage. "My Dad, he… kept a stick at the back door. In case I –" words fail him, and he shrugs. He wants to run.

"Needed discipline?" Guy offers, his words without judgment.

Kyle's breath escapes in a 'whoosh' that leaves him lightheaded. "Yeah." He scuffs his foot on the back of his leg, digs his curled fist deep in a pocket. "If I got it, he hit me less. Than usual."

"Why do I get the feeling that you ending up broke and homeless in New York was better than what you left in California?" Guy shakes his head. "Don't worry, kid, I took enough knocks in life to know not to give 'em back to people who don't deserve it."

Kyle smiles weakly, the panic in his chest dissolving. "I'm sorry, that was a dumb thing. I shouldn't let it get to me." He pushes a hip against the back door, hefting it open. The city sounds and air clear his thoughts a little.

Guy just shrugs as he bolts the door behind them. "Things get under your skin for a reason," he says. "You either dig 'em out or heal over. You got time for both."

They take their time walking the five blocks to the park, Kyle hanging close because Guy walks slower than he does. Over the past week, he's gotten used to the way Guy moves; between the bar and the office, the storeroom, upstairs, always in short bursts and with a purpose. Inside, Guy doesn't use the cane (he leans on the bar, uses the handrail on the stairs) but he seems strong, self-assured. Kyle isn't used to seeing him like this. Guy's frustrated, stabbing at the pavement with his stick, fighting the limitations his injured body has placed on him.

There's a moment when they're crossing the street that Guy's attention wavers, his cane misplaced, and Kyle reaches out without a second thought to catch him by the arm. Guy snarls and pulls away.

"I said before, you don't have to be soft," he growls, pride obviously bruised. "I'm a big boy, I can take care of myself."

Kyle is about to stammer an apology when a high, quavering voice pierces their awkward moment:

"Why, bless me, I saw you and I knew it had to be! Guy Gardner!" There's a tiny wisp of a woman, all frizzed grey hair and scarves, and she's coming towards the two of them with her arms outstretched. She literally comes up to the middle of Guy's chest, she's that small. Guy looks around for an escape route and doesn't find one, and she snags him into her praying mantis embrace. "I haven't seen you in ages! I was just telling Mrs. O'Grady – you remember her, don't you? Her son was in your unit, he didn't come home, poor dear, and such a nice boy – I was just telling her that I hadn't seen you around in weeks. She was saying "Why, Laurel, I haven't seen Gardner's boy around, not since he got home from Bethesda!" I said "No, and he hasn't been to church at all!" We were all worried for you; I know Mrs. Donnelly was going to remember you in her prayers. You should go and see her! Her boy Paulie is in a VA home now after that awful Pacific business, and her husband lost a leg in the great War, bless his soul, I'm sure she'd appreciate a visit. Are you still taking care of your Pappy's bar? Lord knows, my husband used to spend enough of his wages there on an evening!"

"Uh," says Guy, and Kyle realizes that he's actually blushing! "Still have the bar, ma'am, yes." He's also fidgeting, fingers twitching on the crook of his cane.

"You know, we were all so worried when you re-opened that place, it was too much work for just one person, especially after – well -- what happened to you overseas, dear boy. I mean, thank goodness that Mary's niece was looking for work after she dropped out of the typists' pool, or I think you'd never have gotten the bar back into shape. Of course, I haven't been in there myself – I don't drink now, not since your Pappy's wake and you know how torn up I was -- but I was talking to Joe Francis, you know he's Mrs. O'Grady's neighbor, apparently he goes every so often, and he was telling me it's never looked better!"

Guy's jaw works as he grits his teeth against what he obviously wants to say, and he shoots Kyle a sideways look. "Thank you, I have been working hard on fixing it up where I can."

"You shouldn't have to do all that work yourself, you know, not with your spine the way it is, you call Mrs. Donnelly, she'll send her nephew over anytime you need him. He's taking up the trade after his father, you know, good strong boy and smart as brass tacks." As if the subject suddenly reminds her, she swings around to face Kyle, who attempts to take a step backwards. Guy's iron hand on his elbow prevents him. "Speaking of help, who is this lovely young man? I know Joe said there was another face around the bar but he hadn't been introduced! You used to be such a gentleman, Guy and now you're hiding things from the neighbors."

Guy pushes Kyle forward towards her arms. "This is Kyle Rayner, ma'am. He's helping out at the bar for a bit. As you said, I need the help." He winks at Kyle, motions to shake her hand. "Kyle, this is Mrs. Maloney. Her husband Jack used to own the hardware store across the street."

"Call me Laurel if you want, dear," she shakes Kyle's hand with a grip like iron pincers, and insists on planting dry, sharp kisses on both his cheeks. "You've got such a lovely tan, my boy! Not like Guy, I know, since he came back I hardly ever see him getting any air at all, even with this lovely Indian Summer we've been having." She swats Guy on the arm with her handbag. "You should be taking better care of yourself, I can hear your mother rolling in her grave. Is he eating his vegetables, young man?"

Kyle stifles a laugh into a snort, "Yes, ma'am." Guy looks absolutely mortified, like he wishes the sidewalk would split and swallow him up whole.

"You should have seen his father, wonderful man, you couldn't ever say he was beautiful, but I thought he was. Light on his feet like a dancer! He was the pride of the neighborhood, with his winnings from the ring he bought that bar and really brought the place together." There were practically stars in her eyes. "His father was such a lovely man, and his eldest boy took after him, didn't he, Guy? Now, how is your brother? He was talking about you at church last week. Such a sin, your own family having to ask after you when you don't show up." She jabbed Guy in the ribs, emphasizing the last three words, and he took a shuffling step backwards.

"He passed up the chance to run the place, and I've been too busy. I'm sorry, Mrs. Maloney, I will try to get to church soon." He stooped and kissed her cheek, and she patted his shoulder.

"Well, it's just so nice to see you, Guy," she said matter-of-factly. "And to meet you, Kyle. You look after him, young man. He'll deny it, but he's not very good at it on his own."

"Thank you, Mrs. Maloney. And tell Mrs. Donnelly thank you for her prayers." Guy grabbed Kyle's arm to drag him away from her clutches. "And now, we really should be going. Say goodbye, Kyle."

"Uh, goodbye—" Kyle manages to squeeze out, before Guy hustles him away up the street.

"Not a word," Guy mutters with a backward glance to make sure Mrs. Maloney isn't following them. "Not. A. Word."

Kyle walks beside Guy in silence again, relieved that the park is just ahead. There are a couple of kids playing on the swings, and their passage is marked by the rhythmic squeak of rusty metal. Under the shade of a spreading tree, two stooped old men are waging a war in ivory and ebony across the stone chessboard between them.

"There, go nuts." Guy all but collapses onto the nearest bench, trying not to sound winded. He waves Kyle off towards the tree where a crooked root curves perfectly out of the dirt to make an artists' perch. "Do your thing. I'll be right here."

Kyle goes meekly, checking over his shoulder to make sure that Guy's not angry, though he isn't sure why that matters so much. Guy's a friend, of course: he must be, since Kyle's pretty much been invited to stay as long as he needs to. He settles himself under the tree, back to the roughened bark, eyes on the two chess players.

They are almost like chess pieces themselves, their features carved by time in deep wrinkles, their eyes almost unseen in their wizened faces. Neither of them speaks, not in voices at least; their conversation is the movement of pawns and knights across the board, their argument and resolution the clash of rooks and bishops.

Kyle draws it all. He draws the curved backs of the two men over their game, and the great arcing sweep of the tree's braches above them. He draws the battleground in black and white with the armies advancing. He draws the children at play and a tired, beaten man slumped on a park bench waiting for… something….

… and that's where Kyle stops: at Guy. He stops there, and he watches and he thinks and he lets his pencil be still for a moment. He thinks maybe that Guy looks a little lonely there all by himself.

"Hey, Guy?" Kyle says quietly, at Guy's elbow. Guy grunts himself out of his sun-splashed melancholy.

"Yeah?"

"You know you can ask me if you need help with stuff, right? I mean, I'm not going to judge or say mean things about you in church." Kyle feels the panic rise up in his chest again, but he tamps it down. He needs to say this. "You didn't have to come here with me, but you did. And I know it was probably tough to do it."

Guy looks at him with a wrinkle of… concern? confusion? on his forehead. "Oh?"

"I know there was a couple nights you didn't make it upstairs. If you don't want to sleep on the couch, all you have to do is yell at me to come down and get you. I don't mind."

"Kyle, that's not your responsibility. Not your problem."

"But you're letting me live with you, so it kind of is." Kyle takes a seat on the bench next to Guy. "Look, I know I can't take care of myself just yet, but neither can you, and just… can't we look out for each other?"

Guy cracks half a smile and shakes his head. "You got nerve, kid," he chuckles. "I open up my home to a scared mouse and I find a Moriarty."

"Is that a yes, then?"

"Hold your horses. We'll see how this week goes. If you haven't broken anything in the kitchen by Friday, then we'll talk." The words seem harsh, but there's that familiar twinkle of good humor hiding in his eyes. "I hear your boss might be looking for someone to fill a more permanent position around the place. Good with a pencil and paper, bit of a smart aleck. Know anyone who might be interested?"

Kyle grins, and then hands over his sketchpad. "Perhaps you could forward this to my boss. I look forward to the interview."


	4. Chapter 4

It's only been a couple of weeks since the warm weather finally gave up the ghost, and at Kyle's park the leaves are starting to turn. When he sits under the tree to watch the chess players now, he's wearing an old sweater his Nana knit him for his fourteenth birthday. It's patched and the sleeves are too short, but he rolls them to his elbows and concentrates on his drawing instead.

Working at Guy's bar has been good for him; he's managed to save a few dollars and he feels like he fits in more. He knows it's been better for Guy, too, though Guy would never admit it. They have a kind of routine going between them: First Guy will ask Kyle to do something that Guy doesn't want to do. He'll give an excuse (and it's never "I don't want to" but always something like "it needs to be level" or "I'll just end of breaking it"), and then Kyle will have to try to do it. He usually ends up doing it wrong, though, but Guy doesn't get mad, he just takes the hammer (or rag, or paint brush, or whatever) away from him and does it himself. And then it won't be level or it will end up cracked, and Kyle tries not to say something smart, and Guy gives him a root beer for (not) helping. Then Guy will have another shot of scotch and laugh at him and Kyle's eye will drift to the scratched piece of cardboard tacked up over the cash register with his first portrait of Guy on it, and wonder what the hell Guy sees in himself he can't admit.

Kyle likes to have some of Sunday to himself to work on his drawings and to explore the city. He's taken the bus to the subway and ridden around in clattering dark tunnels to emerge, dazed and reeling, at Times Square or the Empire State Building or Radio City Music Hall. He's bought a pencil sharpener in the shape of the Statue of Liberty that he keeps on his windowsill in his room. He fills up pages and pages in his sketchbook with the looming skyline and interesting people. Sometimes he shows them to Guy and sometimes he doesn't.

Right now, he's concentrating on getting the line of the shadows just right between the swing set and the park bench. He's watched them creeping across the grass as the sun moves through the sky, and in a few minutes they will tangle with the gravel edge of the walkway and he will lose them into clumps of overgrown grass and cracked cement.

There are footsteps, and a shadow joins the swing set. He looks up, squinting against the angle of the sun. It's Guy.

"Yeah?"

"Hey, Kyle, I was just… passing by, saw you were here." He has a duffel sack over one shoulder, olive drab with "GARDNER" inked on it. "I was going to go and see a couple friends of mine and was wondering if you wanted to come along."

Kyle stretches kinks out of his neck and looks at his sketch. "Yeah, I'm losing the light anyway." He clambers to his feet and brushes the grass off his denim jeans. "Where are you going?"

Guy jerks his jaw in a "come along" kind of gesture, and Kyle dutifully falls into step beside his uneven pace. "To work off a little steam. Haven't been in a dog's age."

Guy cuts across the park, through a narrow gate Kyle had seen but figured was off-limits, and then they're moving down an alley between old brick buildings. Some of the windows facing the alley are cracked or missing, and to Kyle they look like broken teeth and blinded eyes. He shivers a little.

"It's kind of rough, isn't it?" Kyle says warily.

Guy notices his hesitation and shakes his head. "It wasn't always like this, though." He hefts the duffel bag higher on his shoulder and gives a cocky grin. "Used to be much worse."

They reach what appears to be the destination, a hefty iron door flaking rust and paint, and Guy presses a button set into the frame. Kyle can't hear a buzzer or a bell, but something must have made a noise because shortly someone starts clanking open the locks and the door creaks open.

"Well, well, well, Guy Gardner, you son of a bitch!" A large man with skin the color of coffee clasps Guy by the shoulder and gives him a shake. He has a grimy white towel slung around his neck and medical tape on his knuckles. And Kyle thought Guy was big and tough: he had obviously never met his friends. "What the hell you doing here? I thought you were still laid up in Maryland."

"Yeah, John, long time no see," Guy puts up with the joshing easily, and shrugs off the question. "So can we come in or are you going to let us stand out here in the cold all day?"

"Yeah, sure. You here to work?" John steps away from the door and Guy limps in shadowed closely by Kyle. "Who's the shrimp?"

"Picked up some help. Kyle, meet John Stewart. Taught me everything I know."

"Hah!" Stewart interjects, "If you listened to half of what I taught you, you'd be a million-dollar prizefighter. Let's just say I'm glad you came back home and leave it at that." He engulfs Kyle's hand with his in an iron-hard handshake. "You must be some kinda hero to put up with this guy, Kyle. What's the secret?"

Kyle's cheeks flush and he looks from Stewart to Guy and back again. "Uh, we have an understanding?" The explanation doesn't sound like it carries much weight, but Guy shoulders in.

"Ah, leave him alone, John. Guess that's the secret you never learned about me, either." Guy shrugs. "You got space for me? How about two?"

"Yeah, come on in, it's been slow tonight." John pushes open the fire door at the end of the hall and ushers them in.

The gym is bigger than Kyle expected, with a high girded ceiling and industrial windows along one wall. They are grimy (like everything else) and let in only a little bit of cloudy light. In the centre of the space is a raised boxing ring and a few folding metal chairs. The rest of the gym has equipment bolted to the floor, suspended from the ceiling or resting on benches, body bags and speed bags and weights.

"Like it?" Guy grins.

Kyle can only look around again. There are faded posters advertising fight nights next to the door they just came through. Some of them have 'Boom-Boom Gardner' splashed across them and Kyle can see the resemblance.

"Practically grew up here. " Guy tosses down his duffel and shrugs out of his jacket.

Kyle's looking at the posters with a critical eye. The colours have faded but their impact is still strong. "Is this your Dad?"

Guy sighs instead of saying anything. Kyle moves along the wall. There are a few of 'Star' Stewart with a picture of him much younger and thirty pounds lighter. His crouch is predatory and dangerous.

"Hey, I think I've heard of him." Kyle points at a dog-eared posted advertising a title bout between 'Boom Boom' and California Flyboy Hal Jordan. The date on the poster shows it's the most recent. "Who won?"

"That was a bad fight," Stewart was shaking his head as Guy steadfastly continued to ignore Kyle's fascination with the wall of fame. "Better not ask him about that one just now." He slaps a well-worn towel into Kyle's hands. "Now, you here to work, or what?"

"Uh." Kyle shrugs, looking at Guy for his cue. Who of course, says nothing. "I guess so?"

"Great." Guy upends the duffel bag onto the bench and tosses Kyle an old pair of sweatpants. "Put these on." He points towards a grey door, which, by the smell of bleach and mildew, must be the showers. "Change in there."

Kyle does, stripping down to his undershirt and folding his jeans neatly on the bench. The sweatpants are too big for him (of course) but he rolls the waistband down a bit and cinches the drawstring as tight as he can. He feels a little silly dressing up in someone else's clothes, like a little boy wearing his father's shoes and hat. But he takes his towel and pushes back out into the gym.

Guy's sitting on the bench, a picture of concentration, winding tape around his hands. He's wearing a better-fitting version of Kyle's outfit, and the undershirt unabashedly shows off the brawn that Kyle suspected was there. Guy's arms are strong and there's a triangle of muscle where his neck joins his shoulder that tenses when he bows his head. There's also the scar on the back of his skull, winding down into the neck of his singlet.

"Wow," Kyle says in spite of himself. Guy looks up, and he realizes he's said it out loud. "Uh. You're in pretty good shape."

"Sure, for a cripple," Guy mutters, tearing the tape off with his teeth. "Here, give me your hands. Don't want you banging up your pretty little artist's fingers, now do we?"

Kyle watches him intently as he tapes his knuckles, surprised at Guy's gentleness. The closest he's ever gotten to boxing before now is in fistfights back home. He remembers bleeding noses and split knuckles, and grudges lasting for months.

"I kinda get the feeling you're a scrapper, am I right?" Guy pulls on his own gloves and tightens the laces by yanking on them with his canines. "You're skinny, but you can probably land a punch."

"Sure, if someone's trying to beat me up. But sometimes it's easier to run." Kyle feels like Guy's inspecting him and tries not to shrink under his gaze. He hangs his hands by his sides. "That make me a sissy?"

Guy shrugs as he holds out first one glove, then the other, for Stewart to wrap up with tape. "Depends. Think running from enemy fire when my gun's jammed made me a sissy?"

Kyle bites his lip.

"Take it easy on the kid, Guy. Go on the speed bag while I show him the ropes." Stewart takes Kyle by the shoulder and leads him over to a heavy body bag hanging motionless on its chain.

Kyle half pays attention to what John is showing him, how to hit the bag and where to put his feet, but he's also watching Guy working off in the corner. His hands are moving too fast for Kyle to follow, and the steady thrumming of the speed bag is almost like a heartbeat.

"You're not paying attention, Kyle!" Stewart jerks him back towards the heavy bag. "Weight on your back foot, hands up!"

The impact of his gloves on the bag is strangely satisfying. He's never been able to just… hit something before, without breaking anything or hurting someone. It feels almost constructive. He keeps his hands up, gets into a rhythm. It feels good to break a sweat doing something other than dishes for Guy's place.

But this is clearly not what Guy is going through, as Kyle can still hear him grunting and cursing over in the corner. He wonders how long it's been since Guy was here, and if he's pushing himself too hard.

Clearly, Stewart feels the same way, as he leaves Kyle practicing right and left jabs at the bag and goes over to see Guy.

"Your stance is rotten," Kyle hears him telling Guy. Keep your weight back! Don't curl your spine so much."

He doesn't hear all of Guy's answer, but half of it is "Of course I can't –" followed by "-- goddammit, John."

"Go on the body bag, you miserable cuss," Stewart tells him. "I'll run targets with the kid."

Kyle stops to towel the sweat out of his eyes, and feels the muscles burn across his shoulders and down his back. Stewart comes back with a pair of things that look like baseball gloves, sort of, with round patches on them.

The target work is tricky, where Kyle has to watch his feet and his hands, and try to hit the gloves without extending himself too far. John coaches him along slowly, until it starts to feel like a dance. In, out, duck, jab; Kyle could really get used to this kind of thing.

"Not bad for your first time," Stewart says. "Takes a while to get used to it, but I think you'll be respectable."

There's a muffled curse over by the heavy bag and Guy stumbles into it, knocking it with his shoulder. He's slightly winded, and it's clear he's getting tired.

"Guy!" Stewart yells over, snapping Guy out of his fury, "You're finished on that. Come show Kyle how to spar and I'm calling it a night for you."

Guy mutters and scrubs one gloved hand through his hair. It sticks up in dark sweaty spikes. It makes him look dangerous, Kyle thinks, though he'll never say that out loud (at least on purpose). He's limping a little more than usual, too, but says nothing as he clambers into the ring with Kyle and John.

"You remember how to keep it clean, don't you, Guy? No blows to the head, keep it above the waist, and take it slow!" Stewart positions Kyle opposite Guy, and Kyle puts his gloves up into a defensive position. "If I think you're lagging, I'm gonna call it."

"Sure, sure," Guy mutters. He knocks his gloves together, sets his feet and looks at Kyle. "Come on, you go first."

It's not quite like hitting the bag, or the targets, and Kyle feels clumsy and off-balance. His feet keep catching on each other as he tries to remember: footwork, head up, hands up. Keep his weight back, stay light. Guy is taking a few of the punches on his gloves, some he's deflecting sideways off his forearms. Kyle tries to get through his defenses, but Guy's too fast. He takes a glove to the shoulder and it rocks him back on his feet a little. He takes a short jab, aiming for Guy's ribs and Guy's too slow to catch it. Kyle grins a little at the contact, knowing he's finally doing something right.

Guy presses his size advantage, but Kyle's small and quick. He stings a few more punches past Guy's fists and dances away. Maybe it's the adrenaline, or maybe he's just lucky, but he dodges and deflects a couple more swings from Guy, and catches him good, down low in the gut. Guy tries to sidestep the next blow, but as he blocks his bad leg gives out and he stumbles, goes down on one knee on the mats.

And that's when he makes a low growl in the back of his throat, and starts to advance. The first couple of punches are wide, but as Kyle tries to hold his ground, they find their target. He takes another on the shoulder and backs up, only to find the ropes at his back. He doesn't like the look on Guy's face, either; it's like he's fighting something else entirely.

A glove catches Kyle in the ribs and his hands go down. Two more blows follow, getting faster and heavier. He twists away from the ropes as Guy tries to clinch him. He can hear Stewart's voice shouting something, but it's all a blur. Guy's fists are everywhere, and Kyle knows he doesn't have a chance. He swings wildly, hoping to throw him off. By some stroke of luck, he lands a punch right in Guy's mouth, and Guy pulls up, stunned.

"I said that's enough, Gardner! What the hell is the matter with you?" Stewart is already scrambling into the ring and pushing Guy away. "The kid's first day and you're trying to beat the tar out of him!" Stewart loops a towel around Kyle's neck, and asks him, "You okay, kid?"

Kyle's legs are trembling and his breath is heavy, but he still has a fierce grin on his face. "He got a couple punches in, but I'm alright."

"You did good. I would have clocked him in the mouth too." Stewart strips the tape off Kyle's gloves and helps him with the laces. "Go hit the showers. I'll deal with this big ox."

Guy looks a little ashamed, not meeting Kyle's glance as he ducks under the ropes and heads for the shower. He's holding a towel up to his face and it's flecked with blood. Kyle hears Stewart start in on him as he makes his way across the gym.

He cranks the shower on as he unwinds the tape from his knuckles. The water runs rust orange for a while before the boiler kicks in, and Kyle looks at himself in the cracked mirror with his undershirt off. There are a couple of bruises starting to redden on his shoulder and side, but nothing painful. And the last couple of months have been good for him. Donna cooks for them (sometimes) and Guy cooks (mostly) and the regular eating has put a couple of pounds on his skinny frame. And he's not sure, but maybe the nervous tension across his shoulders has lessened a little.

Kyle's got his head under the shower's blast when Guy limps in, so he doesn't notice him right away. There's a pipe-rattle and a hiss, and the water pressure dips, and Kyle shakes the soap out of his eyes and sees Guy, two shower nozzles down the row. He's leaning against the tiled wall so the spray runs through his red hair and across his shoulders. The muscles across his back start to relax under the hot water, and when he shifts the weight off his bad leg, Kyle sees the scars running across the rest of him.

There's a vicious, angry chunk of ruined muscle high on his right hip, and a network of other sutured tracks low across his spine. The scar on his head, it turns out, runs halfway down his back and cuts sharply through his left shoulder before thinning out across his ribs. In some perverse kind of balance, there's a scar the shape of a perfect crescent moon on one buttock.

He doesn't seem to notice Kyle, or if he does, he couldn't care less. In the line of his posture, Kyle reads defeat and maybe, just maybe, a hint of shame. He doesn't know what Stewart said to him in the gym, but it couldn't have been gentle.

Not that Guy needs gentle handling; he's like a hardheaded mule that way. Turn him a direction he doesn't want to go, and it's pretty much impossible to get him to go until he decides he wants to go of his own free will. That's the way the two of them ended up here at the gym. Kyle's certain that until a few weeks ago, Guy would have been content to wallow in his own misery, separated from the rest of the world by a wall of pint glasses and the wooden bar he stood behind. No one had been able to reach him until his run-in with Mrs. Maloney and her wagging tongue.

Guy doesn't move, and Kyle starts feeling a little awkward just standing there watching him, so he hurriedly finishes his shower and starts to towel off. After a couple of minutes, the hiss of the water stops, and there's silence.

"I'm sorry I lost my temper," Guy says finally. He's wrapped a towel around his hips and his wet hair hangs over one eye kind of rakishly. His bottom lip is swollen and split. "Are you okay?"

"Nothing that won't go away in a couple of days," Kyle rubs at the bruise on his shoulder. It's warm and a little painful, but it's a good kind of pain, the kind that reminds him he's done something worthwhile. "What about you?"

"You should have hit me harder," Guy says as he limps over to the mirror. He swipes the fog off the glass with one palm and examines his mouth. "Look at this. It doesn't even need stitches!"

Kyle laughs a little nervously. "Is that what I was trying for? I didn't know that was part of the deal."

"Hey, practice makes perfect." Guy shrugs and turns away from the mirror. "Don't worry about me, I've taken a lot of hits before."

"I guess that's what worries me," Kyle tells him, and he's more than half serious. "I don't really want to get good at punching you, Guy."

"Guess there's no reason you need to perfect that skill. You're not the first guy to throw a punch at me. Probably not the last."

"I didn't think I'd like it," Kyle admits. He clenched his fingers into fists and looks at them, imagining them encased in tape and gloves again and what that little bit of power felt like. "Most of the time hitting people isn't really a good thing, you know?"

"Well, I didn't enjoy it at first." Guy paws through his messy pile of discarded street clothes looking for his underwear and socks. He starts to dress. "But I didn't really have a choice; like father like son, huh? It turned out all right, though, when my old man laid up on me at home. He found out I could hold my own in the ring and he pretty much left me alone. Then I liked it."

"So that poster was your Dad. You look like him."

"Yeah, used to." Guy fights with his socks and wins, then goes looking for his trousers. "He won some pretty good fights. Some folks said he was the best light heavyweight to come out of the New York Athletic Commission for ten years." He shakes his head with a vague smile. "Of course, some folks said he was the worst hell raiser, too. Just depends whose side you were fighting on."

Kyle wriggles into his denim jeans and shirt, and too-small sweater, and is scuffing his feet back into his shoes when Stewart raps on the door and comes in.

"Thought one of you'd fallen down the john," he teases. "Was gonna come and pull you out."

"Aw, you couldn't lift me, old man," Guy grins right back, even though it's clear his pride is still smarting a little from the event in the ring. "But it's nice to see you're concerned."

It's such a change from the Guy of three seconds ago that Kyle is a little stunned to see his defenses snapping back up. For a few minutes, he thought he could see what Guy was all about, but that is all gone, and Guy is back to being the same hard-headed thug that clearly everyone must think he is.

"Listen, kid, you can come back any time you want. You could use a little bulking up. Put some meat on those bones." Stewart thumps him on the shoulder and for the first time, Kyle doesn't flinch away. "And drag Gardner along with you. He could use the exercise."

Kyle looks over, and Guy's fighting with one shoe and muttering curse words under his breath. He is starting to look the way he gets when the stairs are too much for him, and Kyle knows if he tries to help him, here in front of Stewart, Guy would never hear the end of it.

Finally, Guy gets the laces and lumbers to his feet. "No reason to mince words. I'm old and out of shape. I know it. Why the hell do you think I came here?"

Stewart laughs and shakes his head. "Because you're a sucker for punishment and I know how to dish it out?"

"Hey, if you can get me into half the shape I used to be, I'll give you a medal." Guy grins. "And drop by the bar anytime you want. Your tab's still running from 1936 and I don't have the heart to charge you for it."

**

Stewart sees them out through the rust-caked fire door, and after it swings shut with a shudder and a thunk, Guy sighs and raises his hand against the setting sun. They've been inside for more than a couple of hours, Kyle realizes with a start, and the fading rays are golden orange, creeping through the cracks of sky between buildings. They start walking home, through the alley, across the little scrap of grass that passes for a park. It's deserted now; all the children called to supper. Kyle is trying to match Guy's pace, even though his steps are painfully slow.

"So. What do you think?" Guy's eyes are crinkled up at the corners like there's a joke in his words. Kyle nods.

"That was… good," he says slowly. "Different than I expected. Is it always that empty?"

"Things haven't been the same since the war," shrugs Guy. Kyle wants to mentally slap himself. No, of course not. Guy probably had friends once, too. He remembers Mrs. Maloney and her lists of names: the dead, the broken, the missing. He feels instantly stupid.

"Uh." He can't say it, but something else tumbles out of his mouth instead: "Guy, I'm really sorry I hit you."

"No, you're not." The finality in Guy's voice shocks Kyle and he starts to stammer and tries to explain, but Guy cuts him off with a wave of his hand. "No. Listen. I deserved it."

"But-"

"-I said before, you don't have to go easy on me. I'm a big boy." The curve of his muscled shoulders is tense and Kyle can see the line of his jaw working to keep his tongue bitten.

"You think just because I'm smaller than you means I can't take care of myself," Kyle shoves his hands in his pockets and makes fists, feeling like a scolded child. "You're not going to break me. People hit me – used to hit me – all the time. I'm pretty used to it."

Guy shakes his head like he's throwing off a heavy harness. "See, that's why I shouldn't have. You get this look sometimes, and I don't want to… Goddammit, Kyle." He lapses into silence again.

Kyle knows the look he means. It passes between them sometimes when Guy will do something entirely normal like getting up from his chair and reaching for his cane, and Kyle can't help himself and shies away, and Guy tries to pretend it doesn't happen. Sometimes he takes the stick with him, and sometimes he leaves it where it leans in the corner, but either way there's a moment when they both wish their thoughts weren't so easily betrayed by their bodies. Kyle can't fix it (and it's not like Guy has much of a choice sometimes, when the weather's bad and his back hurts like hell), so there's nothing they can do but ignore those brief, damningly personal moments.

"Well, can we call it a fair fight, then?" Kyle pulls a little smirk and gauges Guy's tolerance level. "You're sorry, I'm sorry, I think that means we're even."

The corner of Guy's mouth curves up a little. "Yeah, I guess you're right. This time. Next time, who knows?"

"Oh, next time I'm going to trounce you and then I'll get to be John's poster boy." Kyle laughs and fakes a short jab at Guy's sturdy shoulder. Guy shrugs it off, but not before the grin makes it all the way onto his face.

"You might need more than one lesson before you make it onto a poster."

"Nah. I can just draw myself whipping your sorry ass!"

Guy chuckles and shakes his head, and Kyle tells him all about the poster design for the rest of the walk home.


End file.
